


Crumbling

by Darazelly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Developing Relationship, Discrimination, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, The Winter Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darazelly/pseuds/Darazelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were few foes that she hesitated in front of, few battles that she wouldn’t leap into at a moment's notice.<br/>But the arena presented to her tonight was not one where she felt at home nor welcome at.</p><p>(Initially posted for a K-meme fill asking for the Inquisitor having a breakdown at the Winter Palace)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumbling

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this way back in January as I was trying to get back into writing. The Inquisitor is vaguely based on my own, but it's not related to my other work, thus the use of the default name. For context's sake, the Champion specialization for warriors is spoken of as a 'sister spec' of the Chevalieres, and Gaspard do comment that it's been a bit of a scandal that an elf (Or non-human Inquisitor?) have been trained as one. Hope you enjoy the read!

There were few foes that she hesitated in front of, few battles that she wouldn’t leap into at a moment's notice.

But the arena presented to her tonight was not one where she felt at home nor welcome at.

She hated all the false pleasantries and the stiff smiling masks that hid their calculating faces. They were like hungry wolves, their judgmental stares following her every movement as they waited for her to slip up.

Ellana shifted in her long silk dress – as per Vivienne’s insistence - and fought down her uneasiness while she scanned the crowded ballroom for her advisors and companions. 

Sure, it was pretty, the deep red fabric almost impossibly soft against her skin. At her waist, a silver brooch shaped as the Inquisition crest pinned the blue sash that they all wore to herald them as part of the Inquisition into place. It was a marvellous piece of jewellery, beset with small rubies at the centre of the eye, marking her as the Inquisitor. From it, slender silver chains looped around her waist, matched by the simple chain around her neck.

The first time she had tried on the dress, she had been amazed by how it was cut to make even her modest bosom look full and inviting, all while softening out her wide muscular frame. She had been unable to stop herself from taking a somewhat childish joy in how the light fabric flowed around her legs as she moved, and be fascinated by the delicate embroideries of ivy and blossoms along the long sleeves. It was an odd contrast to her leathers and heavy armour, and on any other night in any other company, she might even have enjoyed wearing it.

But tonight it just felt like a testament to how out of place she was.

Despite doing her best to conceal how uncomfortable she felt, Ellana's back and shoulders were tense with apprehension and anxiety. In the crowded room the dress just felt too tight, too hot. The half-face mask she wore didn’t help matters either, despite how Leliana had made sure it restricted her field of vision as little as possible. It just felt like a lie, thick and heavy, chafing at the bridge of her crooked nose and the ribbon holding it in place twisted the pins in her hair into uncomfortable angles.

A way to pretend to be something she wasn’t, an illusion cast that her ears betrayed, and yet she played their Game with the future of Thedas at stake. 

Ellana had wrapped herself in the graceful and intimidating persona of the Inquisitor like a protective cloak, remaining cool and aloof even as every false smile and word slid like cold ice down her spine.

The key to the servants’ quarters felt cold against her skin where she had tucked it into the front of her dress. Ellana wasn’t sure whether to trust the empress’ occult advisor or not, but she didn’t seem as cold as Leliana had warned her. But then, this was Orlais.

Everyone wore masks, even when they weren’t.

A flash of deep red and blue caught her attention and she craned her neck to see Cullen some distance off, turning to walk further to the back of the ballroom. Swiftly she started making her way over to him to inform him about the strange activity in the servants’ quarters, weaving through the shifting crowds with the same ease as she manoeuvred on a battlefield.

And that’s where she wished to be right now. At least she knew how to handle something with a shield and a sword in her hands. Here? Beautiful clothing hiding daggers and polite words dripping like sweetened poison from brightly coloured lips. She wished she could just take her sword and cut this web of lies to pieces.

“Is that the Inquisitor?”

She ignored the startled gasps as she passed the tittering, wide-eyed noblewomen that didn’t even try to hide their stares.

“A knife-ear?”

“Did you see the markings on her face? I thought that about her being a savage elf from the north were just rumours!”

Her cheeks burned, but some matter of pride forced her to straighten her back and hold her head up high. She would not let them diminish her.

All night she had overheard the same comments, but knowing the orleasian nobles’ opinion on her people, at least half of them had been spoken within earshot of her on purpose.

Knife-ear, rabbit, savage, uncultured wildling. The gasps and whispers about her vallaslin whenever someone saw the lines visible around her mask. Other times she felt the telltale prickle at the back of her neck as someone’s unwelcome eyes roamed over her body, or felt the firm touch of a palm against the curve of her hip or rear as she moved amidst the crowds.

She had even overheard delighted retellings about the rumours of her supposed affair with Dorian, often countered with others convinced she was sleeping with everyone from Leliana to one of the remaining Chantry clerics to king Alistair – ‘He already has that elven mage as a mistress, why not take a savage elf warrior to his bed too?’ - to some important orleasian she did not know of, and more often than not with several of them at the same time.

Her throat grew tighter with worry. Creators, she hoped Cullen hadn’t been facing any questions about their relationship. They had tried to keep it under wraps as much as possible, but it was hard with so many living so close together in Skyhold. People came running all the time, interrupting whatever moment they might’ve stolen for themselves. The rumours were unavoidable.

Suddenly someone cut in front of her, blocking her path with their tall, wide frame, forcing her to come to an abrupt halt or she’d run smack into their chest.

“My lady Inquisitor,” the nobleman greeted her with an easy smile on his lips, the yellow feather in his mask wavering ever so slightly as he inclined his head to a minimal degree.

“Ser chevalier,” she responded curtly with a small nod.

The corner of his lip curled upward, his grey eyes meeting hers. “May I steal you away for a moment, your worship?”

Ellana eyed the hand that was all of sudden offered to her with suspicion. It could be a trap, an attempt to get her alone and isolated. She looked up at the chevalier with a forced polite smile.

“Forgive me, ser, but you haven’t told me your name, and I’m afraid I have business to attend to.”

She moved to walk around him, but he intercepted her and brazenly stepped closer. She instinctively took a step back, instantly regretting it when she found herself backed into the corner between a pillar and the wall.

“Ser Toidi de Symil,” the chevalier continued without missing a beat, mercilessly following her. “I only wished to know if it is true that you have trained with Lord Chancer?”

Ellana swallowed around the lump in her throat and refused to shrink away as he towered over her, close enough for her to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Yes it is.”

Ser Toidi smirked. “Ah, my comrades and I had heard you had been granted to title of ‘Champion’. Some say you fight with the skill to match a chevalier, but... a couple of my comrades seem to disagree with this notion. What say you?”

“Perhaps I do,” she retorted, relieved that she managed to keep her tone casual despite the way her heart hammered in her chest. She couldn’t afford to cause a scene, not when the assassin was still at large.

His lips curled in a leering grin. “Perhaps, then, you would like to arrange for a duel and we’ll see how it goes? To the victor, the hmm... spoils go?”

A choked, disgusted feeling rose in Ellana’s throat when she saw how his eyes flickered down to her cleavage. She took a deep breath and fought down the urge to just strike him across the jaw.

“Maybe another time, ser, I don’t think a dress is the appropriate wear for such an exercise.”

Ser Toidi chuckled, raising a gloved hand to cup her chin. “Perhaps some other exercises then...”

Red hot anger boiled up inside her, the stress of the evening frying the last of her nerves. She gripped his wrist hard enough to bruise, noting with satisfaction the way his eyes widened in surprise at her strength, and roughly pulled it away from her chin.

“I think you forget, ser, that I’m not one of your scared little kitchen elves,” she retorted, sounding far more calm than she felt. “Nor am I some exotic pet that has dressed up for your entertainment. I’m the Inquisitor. Remember it.” She released his wrist with a disgusted noise and stepped around him, quickly moving out of his reach and into the safety of the crowd.

Her stomach rolled and she fought to steady her breathing as she made her way through the ballroom to where she had spotted Cullen. The sooner this evening was over the happier she would be.

“Oh Commander, such strong arms you have!”

Ellana froze at the sight of the giggling woman that was clinging to Cullen’s arm while staring up at him. Glancing around, Ellana noticed that several other nobles were giving the commander appreciative looks. Not to say that Ellana hadn’t been a bit taken away herself by how good he looked in the Inquisition’s uniform when she’d first seen him in it.

But these people, they were eyeing him as if he was a piece of meat.

Cullen shifted in the woman’s grip and the firm set of his mouth and stiff shoulders spoke volumes about his discomfort.

“Most soldiers do.”

“Oh but surely not all soldiers are as handsome as you are.” Her giggles were shrill, audible even over the dim of the ballroom. She stroked his arm, pressing herself closer to him while batting her eyelashes at him.

It wasn’t jealousy that stirred in Ellana's chest at the sight. She trusted him, and everything about his body language screamed of unwillingness. No it was anger on his behalf, the red streaks still lingering in her mind after her confrontation with ser Toidi. But Cullen didn’t need her to barge in like some jealous lover – was that what they were? – to stake a claim. Pulling herself to her full length, Ellana approached them with confident strides. 

At the sight of her, another noblewoman gasped in delight and then turned to her friend to gossip behind their fans. Evidently someone was expecting a show.

Cullen turned to look at her once she approached them. “Inquisitor!”

Her gaze flickered to him and managed to give him a small smile. She noticed the sound of the relief in his voice, his eyes cast in shadows underneath the mask he wore. Beside him, the noblewoman stood up straighter, pressing herself against Cullen’s side like a child clinging to a toy.

“Excuse me, but I need to have a word with my commander,” Ellana spoke, her voice calm and even. She met the noblewoman’s gaze, leaving no room for debate.

The emphasis on ‘my’ was childish, and had Leliana or Vivienne been there, they’d be clicking their tongues in disapproval of her lack of subtlety. But in the face of his discomfort, she didn’t particularly care. In the end, all it would do was pour more water onto the rumour mill, 

The noblewoman’s bright red lips pursed in a pout as Cullen extracted himself from her grip. With a small, relieved smile on his lips, he offered Ellana his arm, which she graciously accepted without another look at the gathered nobles. His presence at her side felt warm and comforting, strong and solid.

But there the tittering whispers were again.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose at the feeling of curious eyes following them as they walked away. Her chest hurt, but she kept her pace calm, even if she couldn’t stop herself from digging her nails into the thick fabric of Cullen’s coat. May the Dread Wolf take her if she gave them get the pleasure of seeing her run, even though she wished to.

If he noticed her tense by his side, Cullen said nothing about it as he led her through the ballroom. His determined gait made sure others moved out of their way, to her admiration and gratitude, allowing them to cross the room in short time.

“Maker’s Breath, thank you,” Cullen murmured into her ear when they exited the ballroom. It was far quieter out in the vestibule, with only a few scattered groups of nobles loitering about near the grand staircase. “I’ve been trying to get away from her all evening, but she just would not give up - she and the others!” 

“You’re welcome,” she gritted out, squeezing her eyes shut for just one blissful second. Her skin was prickling with tension, and a pressing headache was building in the front of her head. 

The far cooler air out in the vestibule felt pleasant against her flushed skin at the back of her neck and the heavy scent of perfume wasn't as thick out here. But then in a instant she became aware of the people that turned to look at them.

Eyes that glittered from behind lace fans and gilded masks, studying the pair with calculating curiosity. She needed to get away from them. With a gentle grip on his arm, trying not to seem too rushed, Ellana tugged Cullen along into the corridor towards the gardens.

“Hopefully they’ll be too busy gossiping about whether their favoured rumour of who I’m bedding is true or not, to bother you,” Ellana murmured absently. The second the words left her mouth, regret welled up inside her when she heard him made a strangled noise at the back of his throat. Cullen's shoulders hitched in a tense, almost unnoticeable manner. Ah, so perhaps he had overheard the rumours too. 

“I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized, her voice soft and quiet. She stopped just inside the doorway to the hall to look up at him, her free hand coming up to rest on his chest. Her eyes were wide with worry as she searched his face for any signs of that she had upset him. “I didn’t mean... I-I have...”

“A lot on your mind,” Cullen finished gently, his free hand touching her hand in reassurance. “I’ve heard the uh, whispers and been questioned about my, ah... availability, but you needn’t worry. There’s a lot of stake tonight, don’t let yourself get distracted by some ill-mannered rumours from stuffy nobles with no better sense than worrying about what the next fad will be.”

Ellana nodded slowly, realising the wisdom in his words even as she bit back the bitter laugh that rose in her chest. She let go of his arm, their fingers brushing as he let it fall to his side.

Chandeliers lit up the hall, the soft candlelight bouncing off the shiny marble floor and gilded decorations, painting a scene as if from a dream. Perhaps if she had stood there with him in a similar hall somewhere else, on a different night, she would have admired how he in the soft candlelight looked like some valiant hero that had stepped out of one of Cassandra’s books, ready to win the night and her heart. A night where they had fewer worries, and weren’t standing in the halls whose history made her heart ache.

Because at the Winter Palace, it all felt overstated and pretentious; a gilded cover hiding away the dark truth like another bright mask meant to distract and conceal. 

When they had arrived at the city, she had forced herself  
to look upon the slums all as they rode through it to the nobles’ quarters where they’d all been housed as per being guests of Gaspard’s. Halamshiral used to be her people’s city, the land of the Dales granted to them for aiding Andraste’s rebellion.

But now it was just another showground for the rich nobles of Orlais to play their Game. All while the elves suffered down in the slums, what of it that wasn’t still a burnt out husk, ash and dust lying thick amongst the fire ravaged bones of structures that once stood there. And far too many of the Dalish saw them as a lost cause.

“I don’t know how Leliana, Josephine and Vivienne can stand this... farce, never mind enjoy it.”

Cullen hummed in agreement. “Neither do I. Have you found anything yet?”

Ellana nodded slowly as she turned to study the carvings on the base of the nearby statue with unseeing eyes. She felt light headed, as if she was slipping through the threads of the Veil to tumble back into the Fade. “Something is... going on in the servants’ quarters. I need Leliana to signal for her people to meet us there... with our gear.”

“I’ll let her know then.”

Ellana gave him a vague nod of accnowledgement. When he didn’t say anything more, she expected him to hurry off to find their spymaster. But instead she felt the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder.

“Ellana, are... are you alright?”

She turned to look at him again. As if cut asunder by a sword, the concern in his voice unravelled the tight bonds she had put her feelings under. He wore a mask, yet when she looked into his honey-coloured eyes, all she saw was genuine concern, warm and affectionate, yet tinged with fear. She could feel her chest go tight, her breath a ragged intake.

They weren’t all liars underneath the masks.

“I-I can’t take this,” she choked out. Her tongue felt like cotton in her mouth, her throat dry and her fingers cold and numb as if she was back in the snowstorm after Haven’s fall, all alone in the frozen darkness, the icy winds pressing against her and stealing her breath away. Trembles wrecked her body as she desperately fought down the tears that burned in her eyes. The last thing she needed was for Vivienne to give her an earful about smearing her carefully applied make-up with something as unbecoming as tears.

Ellana turned her head down and away as shame at her own weakness gripped her heart. She should have better control of herself – no, was expected to have better control of herself.

In a desperate last resort, she tried to pull on the old familiar meditation exercises she would do. But it was like grasping for water, the threads of control slipping through her fingers as the overwhelming longing for Skyhold’s peaceful gardens or the forests of the Marshes reared up inside her.

But then Cullen stepped close to her and wrapped an arm around her, as if trying to shield her from prying gazes. She relented control to him and let him back her up by the wall, clinging to her trust in him as she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. The pain barely helped to clear her mind, but it was a distraction. He leaned past her and tried the handle of one of the many splendid doors in the hall. After quickly checking that the room was empty, he ushered her inside with a hand on the small of her back.

Cold, so very cold, the anxiety clawing at her, making her chest hurt as if someone had kicked her. She hugged herself in a vain attempt to stop her trembling, turning away from him as she dug her nails into her arms. Behind her, the sound of the lock clicking assured them of some relative privacy.

Then Cullen was back by her side, his hand brushing over her back and settling on her shoulder. His touch was light, comforting, and not a attempt to grasp or control her.

“Ellana, talk to me, please.” He hesitated for a second before reaching out to take hold of one of her hands, gently loosening her grip on her own arm. His other cupped her cheek, his fingertips caressing her jaw as he urged her to look at him.

Thankful, she squeezed his hand and pressed the back of it against her heart. She could see from the way his eyes narrowed that he was frowning, his mouth set in a hard line. Even with his mask on she recognized it as the expression he made whenever she came back to Skyhold with a injury – no matter how big or small it was.

Ellana hesitated, chewing on the inside of her cheek before slowly reaching up to brush the pads of her fingers over his jaw, the rough bristle of his stubble giving her something to focus on. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and reached towards the back of his head to with unsteady fingers undo the ribbons that kept his mask in place. Cullen bowed his head to make it easier for her to reach the knot, his hands coming to rest on her waist. With his mask in one hand, she let her fingertips of her other caress his cheek, tracing the scar by his mouth before ghosting over his lips.

She was aware of his eyes watching her intently. His hands were comforting on her waist, his thumbs stroking over the silk of her dress. It was as if his touch kept her from falling apart entirely, holding her together as if she was a crumbling shell.

Ellana wet her chapped lips as she let her hand fall to her side, but didn’t raise her eyes to meet his. “I... not since the Concl... After Cassandra formed the Inquisition...” She swallowed, her gaze dropping to stare at the buttons of his jacket. “I had almost forgotten how it is to be treated as just a Dalish elf amongst humans. Like some... wildling...” 

Cullen’s grip on her waist tightened for the fraction of a second, a reflexive curling of his fingers. He drew a deep breath before stroking up her arms, the tips of his fingers brushing against her ears as he reached to the back of her head. With a few tugs, he carefully slid off her mask, making sure nothing caught on the pins in her hair. Without taking his eyes of her, he put it down on a desk by them.

It was strange how much lighter she felt without it on.

“Ellana...” Cullen’s hands cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones, following the arching lines of Mythal’s mark. She wished he wasn’t wearing gloves so she could feel the warmth of his hands rather than the cold rough leather.

Ellana raised her eyes to meet his concerned gaze, noting the anger brimming under the surface. She nervously turned over his mask in her hands, tangling her unsteady fingers in its ribbons in case she dropped it.

“It’s so odd,” she blurted out with a strained laugh, unable to stop the words from spilling from her lips. “I h-have gotten so used to people seeing something other than my ears or my vallaslin, to be treated as something other than a heretic that will put an arrow in them at a moment’s notice and steal off with their baby. O-or some exotic thing to be claimed and conquered, e-even if all they see is ‘the Herald of Andraste’.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Especially you,” she whispered, hating how her voice broke upon the words like glass upon stone. “I-I don’t feel like a trussed up doll o-or just some religious symbol with you...”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed as he worked his jaw, his expression torn between anger at the implications of her words and those responsible, and affection at her teary confession.

An irrational fear for that he’d think less of her sprung up in her, settling like a cold and heavy blanket over her back. Ellana made a move to back away from him, but he dropped his hands to her shoulder, stilling her.

“Ellana, you...” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as he seemed to search for his words. She could feel his hand flex as if he wanted to scratch the back of his neck.

“You are nothing like them; you have strength within you that they could only dream of. They’re vipers in the grass and you...” His expression softened as he brushed away her tears, the look he gave her so reminiscent of the one he had given her that day they’d kissed at the battlements – full of affection, respect and hope. “You are a woman without compare, no one’s prize to be won or owned, and I will count myself the luckiest man in Thedas to be allowed to stand by your side for as long as you’ll have me.”

Cullen made a surprised noise when she suddenly threw her arms around his midsection and buried her face in the crook of his neck. A choked sob escaped her when she felt his arms around her, his embrace something safe and honest and true amongst all the deceitful shadows. He held her tight, rubbing small circles at her back with his thumbs, as her trembling slowly subsided and she could breathe more easily.

“I can’t stand all these lies,” she whispered. “Thedas is at stake and they’re busy playing their petty games.”

“I know, I detest this as well,” Cullen murmured, “but if there’s anyone that can save the empress, it’s you.”

Ellana let herself linger for a few more seconds, soaking up the warmth of his body and the familiar, comforting scent of leather and sandalwood that still clung to him under the heavy flowery perfume that permeated to their clothes, before she reluctantly pulled back.

Cullen looked down at her with worry still lingering in his eyes. “Will you be alright?”

She gave him a brisk nod and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I will. Thank you Cullen,” she mumbled with a weak smile.

He held her close as he bowed his head to press a light kiss to her lips. “No need to thank me. I... I want you to know that you can always talk to me.” He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “No matter what it is about.”

Despite it all, a small laugh bubbled up her throat, warm affection for him blooming in her chest. “Thank you, ma vhenan,” she replied. Her smile grew a little wider at the sight of his brow knitting together in curiosity at her words of endearment, but she continued before he had the chance to speak the question on his lips, “I should go and find Dorian and the others. Can you look for Leliana?”

“Of course,” Cullen replied with a small nod.

Even as they helped each other put their masks back on, her heart was lighter and void of the worries about the nobles as they both left the room.

Ellana wrapped herself in the graceful and intimidating persona of the Inquisitor like a protective cloak, remaining cool and aloof in the face of every noble. But every time she caught someone staring, or heard the sneering whispers, she reminded herself that in the eyes of those who mattered, she was her own person, and they did not let her ears or the vallaslin on her face sway their opinion of her.

And so she played their Game, with the future of Thedas at stake, and draped in the warmth of those who saw her for who she was, rather than the stories and rumours, she swayed the court to her favour and walked away as the winner.


End file.
